Diane flipped opened her cell and began to dial.
“Hang on a minute. That name looks…John, hi, it’s Diane. Yeah, listen. I’m doing some research on the Grime case. I know, a long time ago.”
Diane scratched out the name John Donovan on a piece of paper and showed it to me. I thought about making a fresh pot of coffee but settled for instant and plugged in the kettle. Diane continued to talk.
“So anyway, I came across the name Daniel Pollard. That sound familiar to you? Really?”
Diane raised an eyebrow and started to take notes. The water began to boil, and I washed out a couple of mugs.
“I had a feeling he was connected,” said Diane. “Is this all in the court transcript? Really?”
More notes. I tried to read over her shoulder, but it was in some sort of reporter shorthand. Instead I put a cup of coffee at Diane’s elbow and settled back with mine. Diane’s foot tapped out a steady rhythm on the floor. Her pen flowed across the page. The reporter was excited. I printed out the photo Rodriguez had e-mailed me of Grime’s prosecution team and took out a magnifying glass. Five minutes later I was still looking at the photo when Diane finished up with Donovan.
“Yeah, John. Thanks. No, it’s just some background right now. But really helpful. I’ll let you know if I decide to do anything. Thanks again, John.”
She flipped the phone shut and leaned forward.
“Goddamn, I’m good.”
“If you do say so yourself.”
“The name Daniel Pollard. I thought I saw it somewhere before.”
“And?”
“It was in an old magazine piece about Grime.”
Now I leaned forward.
“How so?”
“You remember Grime wound up changing his plea to insanity just before the trial started.”
“Yeah. Didn’t work out too well for him.”
“Right. Because of the plea, most of the testimony at trial focused on his mental state and not so much on what actually happened inside the house. There was, however, some pretrial stuff. Before the plea was changed.”
“Pollard was part of that?” I said.
“Apparently. There was one kid, a minor, who gave a sealed deposition. He supposedly testified about seeing some of the missing girls around Grime’s house. I guess he was pretty specific.”
“And you think this kid was Pollard?”
“In this magazine article I read, they interviewed some of the local kids who knew Grime. Pollard was one of them.”
“What does Donovan say?”
“He said Pollard was the kid everyone felt had given the statement. He was seventeen at the time.”
“Would the deposition still be sealed?”
“Oh, yeah. There’s another thing. Donovan says the rumor was that the DA’s office at the time had cut a deal with the kid.”
“A deal?”
“Full immunity for his testimony.”
“Immunity from what?”
“Don’t know. Like I said, it was only a rumor. At the time the press was so fixated on Grime the whole thing just sort of got buried. No pun intended.”
I pulled up the Sun-Times article on Pollard and scanned it quickly.
“What do you want to bet this case was never filed,” I said.
“I can find out tomorrow,” Diane replied. “What we need now is a current address.”
“I know a guy at the DMV,” I said. “If Pollard drives in Illinois, we’ll get his address. Come on. I’ll make the call in the car.”
“Where are we headed?”
I pointed to the Sun-Times article.
“Grime fed us an address as well as a name. Let’s go back out to the old neighborhood and see what’s around.”
CHAPTER 46
There was yellow police tape around a hole where Grime’s house used to sit. A couple of college kids stood nearby, taking pictures of each other in front of the site with their cell phones. Brave bastards. Probably going to download it to all their buddies back at the dorm.
“Not much left,” Diane said.
“Just the memories. Let’s drive over to Pollard’s house.”
It was less than a mile, maybe a ten-minute walk. A Chicago bungalow, two stories of brick, slotted into a row of the same. Working-class digs built when the city called its mayor Boss and never tried to hide it. I parked a half block down the street and turned off the car.
“Hang on here,” I said. Diane didn’t respond.
I pulled out a flashlight and walked up to the house. It was still early evening, and lights were just coming on up and down the block. Fifty-two fifteen West Warner, however, felt empty, its blinds drawn tight. There was a single buzzer with no name and a glass door that looked into an interior foyer. I took a chance and leaned on the bell. No answer.
I flicked my flashlight across the foyer but couldn’t make out a name on the mailbox inside. Then my light caught a scattering of mail spread across the floor. Good old Chicago post office. Sometimes letters make it into the box. Sometimes they don’t. Two were addressed to “Occupant.” The third wasn’t. I could make out only the first two letters of the last name: PO. Daniel Pollard, it appeared, had never moved from the house in Grime’s neighborhood. I took a walk around back and found an alley leading to a small yard, cemented over, and a wooden garage, empty. I flicked off my flash and returned to the car.
“I think he still lives here.”
“Ten years later?”
“Apparently. Must like the neighborhood. Anyway, he gets his mail here. That’s good enough for me.”
“What’re you going to do?”
I was about to respond when a green Pontiac appeared in my rearview mirror. I had my lights off and sat quiet as the car pulled into the driveway of 5215 and disappeared into the back.
“That him?” Diane said.
“You should really think about being a detective.”
“Funny guy.”
After a minute or so, lights came on inside the house. I started up the car, drove down the block, and around the corner to the nearest bus stop.
“All right, Diane, this is where we part company.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. I’m going to follow this guy for a while and might need to get out of the car. It’s a lot easier when I’m by myself.”
“I know how to make myself scarce, Kelly.”
I reached over and popped open the passenger door.
“No time to argue, Diane. The longer I stay here, the longer the house remains uncovered. If he gets in his car and drives off, well…”
I shrugged my shoulders and waited. Diane didn’t like it but didn’t have much choice. She got out of the car without a word.
